


I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight (Again)

by TrenchcoatsandMisery



Series: Lazarus Rising [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, BAMF John Watson, Captain John Watson, Immortality, In the way he's desensitized, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, John Watson Dies, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson in Afghanistan, John is a Bit Not Good, Kid John Watson, M/M, Magic, POV John Watson, Protective John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, but he also comes back to life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24914764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatsandMisery/pseuds/TrenchcoatsandMisery
Summary: John Watson is ten years old when he dies for the first time. It is not the last.The 5 times John Watson dies, then comes back to life. It's a thing.Also, the one time (or at least the one that counts) he kills
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Lazarus Rising [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1892485
Comments: 23
Kudos: 350





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson is ten years old when he falls from the old oak in his backyard. His mother is at work, his father at the local pub. Fifteen years old, Harry is a creature made solely of eyeshadow, pop music and the sickly-sweet smell of strawberry bubble gum, with no time for little brothers climbing up trees. She exists in the periphery of consciousness, out of sight, out of mind. It goes both ways however, his disinterest towards all things female and the dismissive way she interacts with him meaning he doesn’t particularly keep track of her location. But she’s not there as he wedges his foot into the first foothold.

So, he is alone when he falls.

John Watson is a boy of skinned knees and torn jumpers, bruises and dirt streaks. The tree is his tower, a place that is his and his alone, above the world of drunken rows and tired eyes. He knows every knot and groove the trunk has to offer and has scaled its side more times than he can count. Falling is not a rare occurrence for John _(who has been let down many times)_ which is why he only lets out a mildly startled “oh” as his foot slips and his grip falters and gravity tugs him back to earth.

It is not a particularly tall tree.

It is not a particularly dangerous fall.

But when it comes down to it, that doesn’t matter. It’s the angle at which he hits the ground that matters, the way his head collides with the dirt and his necks snaps.

John Watson is ten years old when he dies for the first time. It is not the last.

Fifteen minutes after he dies, he wakes to a blue sky and a stiff back. Death isn’t something that happens to ten-year-old boys in their backyard, so it doesn’t occur to John that something far more important than falling out of his favourite tree has happened. He sits up, brushes himself off and returns to playing. He avoids the tree for the rest of his youth, and even when his father cuts the old thing down, he finds himself taking care to stay away from the stump.  
……………  
It takes nine years before John dies again. It is a far more memorable death, for all the worst reasons. For one, while still an accident, this death is not altogether accidental. The car that clips his bike _decides_ to keep driving after all. Secondly, unlike the first time, there are no peaceful blue skies and summer breezes watching over him. This death is defined by the crunch of metal on metal, the thud of a body on the pavement, the sound of bone breaking and the gentle _pitpatpit_ of blood dripping. The ditch he rolls into, thrown from his bike by the impact, is one in a line of final resting places. Facedown in the dirt, metres away from the main road and a mile away from his university accommodations, John dies alone for the second time. When he wakes up he remembers every second, down to his final wet, gurgling breath. Drowning in his own blood only to wake up thirty minutes later, aching but whole.

Healed.

Stumbling, tripping, staggering he makes it home. Bumps into Mike _('Stamford. Mike Stamford? I sit a row down from you in biochemistry?')_ in the hall, who catches him when he collapses. Time blurs as mike helps him to his room's bathroom, propping him against the side of the toilet as he checks his eyes with a flashlight. “Call me Dr Stamford” he jokes, but the tone is all wrong, a failed attempt to diffuse the tension in the small room. Both ignoring the bloodied shirt that lays discarded beside them, or the complete lack of injury revealed by its absence. They don't talk about it, not now, not 10 years later. John never talks to Mike again other than the occasional cordial greeting and hurried smile as they pass each other in the street.

This death stays with John the longest. Nothing, and he means _nothing_ changes him as much as that night. Even after Afghanistan, it is dreams of dirt and cars, not sand and bullets, that leave him frozen and panting in the harsh light of dawn, hand trembling as he clutches onto the mug of tea that has long since cooled.  
…………..  
Death simply doesn’t stick to John Hamish Watson. The mysterious healing properties he seems to possess do nothing for a sprained wrist at rugby practice or a barbed wire gash during training; only when his heart has well and truly stopped is the evidence of his death is erased. Wounds closed, bones mended, heart restarted. Pain numbed, only an echo remaining. The stiff neck that bothered him the entire summer of 1981 a reasonable price to pay considering the broken neck that caused it. The throbbing chest and shortness of breath during finals week less than ideal, but better than lying dead in a ditch as a result of some coward with broken headlights. He is thankful that these sensations, just like his deaths, never seem to last.

Until they do.

It’s at 28 years old, standing in the heat of the desert sun with a gun in his hand and a purpose nestled between the bandages in his bag, that John Watson dies for the third time. In all honesty, he’s surprised it took this long. Captain Watson _sir_ has been wading through death for 3 years, watching men far younger, faster and stronger fall before him. He’s even killed a few of them himself. War, funnily enough, is dangerous and John is a far too seasoned medic to be unaware of that fact.

This death happens during an ambush. The combination of snipers, landmines and all things loud, sudden and brutal, means there’s no way it could have been prevented. Especially once a bullet, fired not from an insurgent but a young private on his first mission, slices through his femoral artery. The shot is taken when he’s halfway to a fallen comrade _(Second Lieutenant Trevor Leon he thinks, if he can just wipe the blood from the mans face to check)_ and John’s last thought before he passes out, rather than being something poetic or memorable, is “How bloody inconvenient”.

He doesn’t know how long he stays dead, but when he rises, he just keeps moving. Towards the soldier _(Not Leon, this boy is blonde and just that. A boy.)_ , applying pressure, tying a tourniquet. He never finds out if his efforts are rewarded, if that soldier lives, because the next thing he knows his shoulder is alive with fire and pain and he’s falling for the second time. He bleeds and he bleeds and he _bleeds_ onto the sand. This time his thoughts are more coherent, the pain sharpening things until it hurts to feel, think, see, speak. One moment of clarity before darkness takes hold once more.

“Please, God, let me die.”

Let this be over. Let his heart give out. Let the healing begin.

But

He doesn’t

Die.

He wakes up in a field hospital, a miracle recovery. The nerves in his shoulder will never be the same but _you’re alive!_ And that’s what matters. Nurses with painfully bright smiles flit through his room, cooing and crowing about his heroic sacrifice, while doctors who understand just how much an army doctor needs his arm watch on with sad eyes. He waits patiently for the throbbing in his leg to fade, the phantom wound to disappear, and finds himself waiting a damn long time.

Death would have been better than this. Because death never hurt this much.  
…………………  
He shoots himself the fourth time. It’s not that big a deal. The Sig has been sitting in his bedroom drawer for weeks, and its eventual use was inevitable. He wakes up with a headache and the bitter taste of gun powder in his mouth, not to mention the hollow ache of disappointment that grows within his chest.

His shoulder still hurts.

The leg still hurts.

His hand is still as he puts down the gun but shakes ever so slightly as he massages his temple.  
………………………  
The pool is an unwelcome surprise. He _was_ heading home; something that is still a strange concept, having a place to go that holds neither drunken relatives nor ridiculous amounts of sand. Then one second passed, one moment where he pauses to readjust the Tesco bag’s handle and to curse the name of one milk scrounging consulting detective, and the next there are two men trying to jam a needle into his neck. There’s a scuffle, because there’s always a scuffle when burly blokes assume that mild-mannered-jumper-wearing- **army-veteran** John Watson is going to go quietly. He manages to dislocate a shoulder here, break a nose there, and squeeze out one final quip before they get the better of him.

“Doctors orders? Put pressure on th-“

Darkness.

He wakes up briefly to headbutt the man strapping him into some kind of vest. The flash of smugness he feels at the audible crack of bone disappears quickly as he slides back under, gets hit by a car, and then wakes up again. He’s never been a fan of the chlorine stink and thick mugginess of swimming pools, and he has the feeling that’s not going to change after this ordeal. John has never been kidnapped before. He wonders whether the novelty of it will ever wear off, finds himself struggling not to laugh at the thought. That’s what you do when you align yourself with Sherlock Holmes; Accept the idea you’ll probably be kidnapped several more times in the future and try not to laugh about it.

He sobers up considerably when the voice starts going in his ear. While he can appreciate the Machiavellian flair this darkened pool and faceless puppeteer exude, the creepy, lilting Irish tones of a madman in his ear is just plain unsettling. Puts him on edge. He’s not exactly pleased about the bombs wrapped around his chest either, but things could be worse. Dying four times really gives you a sense of perspective towards these kinds of situation, and though the explosive jacket he’s been stuffed into is mildly alarming, the psychopath forcing him to parrot his words is the one who is actually going to kill him.

Which wouldn’t have been a problem until Sherlock walks in.

That beautiful, terrifyingly mortal detective all but saunters in. He’s wearing his battle armour, the Ice Prince Façade that so few get to see behind, the signature calculating grin fixed firmly on his face. John could spend an eternity looking at that face, uncover every micro-expression Sherlock tries so hard to suppress, but his earpiece crackles. The moment shatters, and John is just suddenly aware of the unbearable humidity of the room, the tightness around his chest, the sweat on his brow. Moriarty urges him out, and with a deep breath, john steps out. 

Let the show begin.

He emerges from the shadows, and if it was any other situation, would have laughed at the melodrama of it all. He doesn’t laugh. Instead, his heartbreaks. Because he can see the delay as Sherlock’s mind catches up, watches the cogs whir and tick as he processes John’s stoic face and the unfamiliar bulky jacket. And there is a brief gap before the dots connect and all is clear, where there is nothing on that perfect idiotic face but doubt. Doubt in John. It clears as quickly as it appears, gaining his footing once more as he trades jabs with Moriarty’s shadow over John’s shoulder, but its presence is undeniable.

Sherlock pulls a gun, _his_ gun the arrogant twat, and the game starts in earnest. The one pawn left to offer, given far too quickly and far too freely, is discarded. Moriarty taunts, sherlock stands frozen, and John does what he does best. He dies.

His fifth death unfolds in a series of actions. Sherlock's eyes flick to his, and he pours every fibre of his being into conveying “it’s going to be ok”. Sherlock looks confused, but that’s to be expected. No one really expects their flatmate to blow themselves up for them.

His hand is still.

His leg doesn’t hurt.

In this moment, he feels _alive_.

It’s a good tackle, carries them both straight into the pool. Away from Sherlock, away from the danger. He’s never been blown up before. He doesn’t know what the limit on coming back to life is, whether he needs any body left to regenerate _(like the doctor he thinks. Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate the reference, but funnily enough it gives John comfort)_ or if this is it. He finds he doesn’t mind either way. Moriarty grins at him wildly underwater, which flickers uncertainly as John wraps his arms around the criminal mastermind. John grins wildly back. The bomb jacket detonates.

And for the fifth time in his life, John Watson dies.

It is not the last


	2. And The One Time He Killed For Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plus one I promised

John has never been one for puzzles, never had the patience for anything beyond battle strategy and cheap action paperbacks. But this man… Sherlock Holmes is something new. Something else. Enigmatic and altogether infuriating, he is composed entirely of riddles and contradictions. It’s easy to see the arrogant machine striding from crime scene to crime scene, but it’s the glimpses of the man behind the shell that command John’s attention. The flicker of disappointment when his website is questioned, the cautious delight at John’s praise, but most of all, the thrill of adventure in his eyes at the prospect of danger. Standing by Sherlock’s side is like standing in the eye of a hurricane, looking out at the swirling vortex of wind and chaos from within their place of order. He’s starting to think he could get used to the feeling. 

He hopes, though he would never admit it to the man, that Sherlock feels the same. It’s a far-fetched concept, a pipedream rather than a potential reality. Sherlock is looking for a lapdog, with just enough training to bark and sit on command, destined to forever follow in the man’s wake. John can’t resent it that much though, not when he’s playing straight into his hands. Even after being abandoned, here he is, limping slowly through the streets of London to get back to the flat Sherlock _insists_ is theirs. He’s tired, he’s aching, and he has the strangest feeling that he’s being watched.

And that’s before the telephones begin to ring.

John knows how to lose a tail, how to find surveillance dark spots. He’s escaped enemy traps. Stained his hands in the lifeblood of man, kneeling in the dirt of a cracked and desolate wasteland. Yet, after the rollercoaster of this morning, he can’t seem to muster anything more than mild irritation at the admittedly ominous but altogether underwhelming mystery calls. He lets the charade play out, dutifully oohing and ahhing at the trick with the security cameras, and when the voice tells him to get into the equally mysterious car, he goes without a fight. A cup of tea is what he really wants, and if an awkward car ride with Anthea-But-Not-Anthea is what it takes, so be it. Abandoned warehouses remind him of simpler days, of covert ops and hours waiting, waiting and more waiting before anything ever really kicked off. He’d enjoy it more if it wasn’t all such an obvious overcompensation; the man who lies in wait has more than enough weapons in the favour of his razor-sharp words, but still feels the need to intimidate John through the use of empty buildings and blank-faced bodyguards. Not to mention that John would bet his gun that the umbrella he leans on rather casually is more than just an umbrella.

It's an interesting conversation. He has the sneaking suspicion that this man is a Holmes; he has only met one so far, but there is a distinct Sherlock-ness to the way this man holds himself. The smug expression is also oddly familiar. In another life, John thinks he might have had more fun with this interaction, fought back a little harder. But the dog whistle is being blown, and between standing in a cold warehouse with a man who has his therapist’s notes or going on adventures with a potential madman, it isn't difficult to work out which he'd prefer.  
……………………

He’s texted a murderer and is now eating Italian next to a _high functioning sociopath_. Things unfold quickly, at a pace John hasn’t experienced since the war, and he can’t seem to find it within himself to regret that. There’s a candle on the table and a wry smile on Sherlock’s face and John is pleasantly warm from the wine in his glass.

He takes a step, just to see how it goes.

He backtracks quickly, and with a little less grace then he would have liked.

As awkward, stilted moments go, John’s had worse. Sherlock, the force of nature he is, ploughs onward with his deductions. He seems unwilling to be slowed down by anything as trivial as an aborted proposition attempt, and who is John to stop him. Instead, he watches as sherlock answers his questions just as quickly as he poses them, the conclusion he reaches that is close to manifesting into an actual lightbulb above his head. Then John is being dragged away from his pasta into the streets of London, once more following after the flap of a greatcoat. The taxi that Sherlock makes him run after is not the one they’re looking for, he’d make a joke about droids if he wasn’t so sure he’d be the only one laughing, but he doesn’t care. Because when they make their way home, ignoring the sting of failure, they fall into the entranceway breathless, eyes bright. John hasn’t felt this way since before his third death.

He can’t imagine a world where he never feels this again.

So, he’s taking the flat. A conclusion that Sherlock insists he predicted, backs up with his magic act of the forgotten cane. A drug bust is a wrench in the works and something that apparently Sherlock _didn’t_ forsee. He looks… not ashamed. John’s not convinced the man’s ever felt truly ashamed, not when he’s working so high above everyone else. But there is a flicker of fear when he deems to flick his eyes to John’s like he thinks that he might leave. Like John Watson, a man who has died 4 times and has never really lived, will give up _this_ because of something like a drug bust.

He’s a doctor. He can draw up a detox plan in his sleep. He’s also been reliably informed that he’s a stubborn bastard.

He doesn’t know whether Sherlock deduces any of that from his expression. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever find out. Because suddenly Mrs Hudson is insisting there’s a taxi waiting outside and a strange look takes hold of Sherlock's expression.

With that look in his eyes, like everything in the universe has become clear, crystallized perfection, it’s not like John’s _not_ going to follow him. When he sees the dot that represents Jennifer Wilson’s phone flickering softly under the white text that reads Baker street, he makes his excuses to Lestrade. And with the chaos that has become his life, of course, he takes the gun. Everything kind of fades after that. Epinephrine, good old fashioned adrenaline, is one hell of a drug. He’s in the cab, and then he’s running sans cane, and then he’s staring through an inch of glass and across a hundred metres of air at Sherlock Holmes about to die.

He remembers a time when a decision like this meant a little more to him. When death wasn’t just a fact of life. When life wasn’t just something he hoped for but rather something that was expected.

It takes him a little under a second to take the shot.

The mystery murderer falls, Sherlock whirls around, and John ducks. His heart is beating in his throat, but he’s grinning as steady hands slide the gun back into his waistband. He hurries downstairs, stops. Forces himself to walk calmly the rest of the way, take his place casually in the crowd of bystanders.

He watches Sherlock Holmes pace frantically, sorting through the information and drawing his conclusions. The moment it hits, where things align. Eyes turning towards where John stands.

As the man, all his deaths and all his life incarnate, stride towards him John wonders.

He’s killed a murderer two days after meeting Sherlock.

How long before he dies for him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It has been a little longer than I was hoping, but I'm here! I did it! Here ya go kids!
> 
> Now, for all those people who were looking forward to seeing what happened after the explosion: I'm sorry that it wasn't in this plus 1. The pure poetic vibe that "5 times john dies for Sherlock and 1 time he kills for him" was too good to miss. But... If y'all are into it... I will be addressing those events in a funky sequel called "Five times Sherlock lived for John and one time he died for him".
> 
> Please let me know what you think, yell at me for any mistakes, or simply come cry with me about the sad soldier boy and his sadder boyfriend.


End file.
